Impact Radius
by Supaslim
Summary: New York is devastated; Adrian cracks; a political cartoonist has his door kicked in; and a vigilante speaks out from beyond the grave. Post GN
1. Chapter 1

a/n: A quick note before we begin.

Unlike most of my fics, I am uploading this before it is completely finished. I usually don't, for fear of letting people down when I lose interest and fail to finish. This time, though, I'm taking a different approach: upload now and _force_ myself to finish, _because_ I would be letting you down if I didn't.

Most of the main characters in this fic are original. Don't hate me for it; Daniel and Laurie are in hiding, essentially removing them from the plot. Rorschach is dead (though he posthumously manages to kick this chapter of the story into motion, as he does in the canon). Adrian is pretty much the only canon character who plays a large role. He's the only one _left_.

This story will be written from two angles. One, the first person view of one Adrian Veidt. The other view is third person, regarding a certain group of individuals who came together for a very dangerous reason…

**----------Impact-Radius----------**

"_Nothing _ever_ ends."_

- Doctor Manhattan

_"If you think about it, __pi never ends__. There's an infinite space between 3 and 4. It never ends, and _that's weird_."_

- Rebecca Neet

"_There's a beauty to pi that keeps us looking at it… The digits of pi are extremely random. They really have no pattern, and in mathematics that's really the same as saying they have every pattern."_

- Peter Borwein

----------**Prologue----------**

April 1, 1986

"_What you're asking is suicide." Five people in masks sat huddled around a box in a small, dimly lit room. The slightest of the forms was leaning away from the box, seemingly horrified by the contents, or perhaps just repelled by the smell._

"_Maybe," conceded a young man wearing a rubber clown Halloween mask, "but it needs to be done."_

"_It'll be dangerous," growled another man to nobody in particular. He wore a more solemn black ski mask. "If the police don't try to kill us, Veidt will."_

"_We'd have to be fast," admitted Clown Mask, tipping the box to see the contents clearer, though he knew exactly what they were- he had acquired them himself. "But it won't take much. We just have to be seen by a few people-"_

"_Suicide!" The first speaker reiterated. She had a maroon scarf wrapped around her head, revealing only her narrowed hazel eyes._

"_I'll do it, if nobody else will," volunteered the fourth, a man with a burlap sack over his head. Eye holes had been roughly cut into the fabric. Clown Mask and Scarf both sighed; the former out of resignation, the latter out of indignation._

"_You're too slow," objected Ski Mask indifferently. It was a relatively polite way to decline him, Clown Mask thought. There was no way Ink could pull it off, anyway- not unless he lost about two hundred pounds of fat and muscle overnight, and his lungs magically restored themselves to the state they were in before he had started smoking. Sighing again, he turned to the fifth member of their party._

"_What's your say, Doc?" Doc, whose face was hidden rather appropriately behind a surgeon's mask and cap, furrowed his brow._

"_I'm not against it, but that's not saying much. Obviously, I won't be the one doing it either way. Not with my arthritis." Honest, at least._

"_So it would have to be me, Vince, or Dana, then."_

"_I still have work to do on my project," Scarf- Dana- said coldly._

"_Vince?" Clown Mask was staring at Ski Mask. Vince took a deep breath, hesitant to answer._

"…_If there are no other options. I would need time, though. Before we do it."_

"_How long?"_

"_A month, maybe." Clown swore quietly, tapping the rim of the cardboard box with an anxious finger._

"_Why can't you do it, Win? Afraid?" Dana scoffed._

"_No, I have asthma. I'd be good for about a quarter mile, but that's it," Winston shot back, sweating like a pig under the rubber of his mask. "You can't be ready sooner?" Win asked Vince despairingly, one last time. The somber man shook his head._

"_Then we'll have to wait a month," Doc declared with finality, slapping the box and disturbing its ominous contents. Inside, a battered fedora shifted, giving them all a glimpse of black on white before the box's lid was pushed back on, shrouding its secrets in darkness once more._


	2. Chapter 2

**----------Chapter-1----------**

It seems the fate of all great men to fall.

Alexander of Macedonia succumbed in a strange land to either disease, or poison at the hands of his servants. Julius Caesar, a well-liked lord, was stabbed to death by sixty or more crazed men. Less than a century later, the Jews nailed the one called Jesus to his cross. Most of his loyal followers soon took up their crosses, as well. The American Abraham Lincoln, who did nothing but strive for peace and unity, was shot in the back of the head by John Wilkes Booth at a play. And most recently, the man who led the United States in peaceful protest for equal rights, Martin Luther King Junior… he was gunned down on his balcony, like a fish in a barrel.

And yet, though they died various deaths because of their great deeds, I am compelled to follow in their footsteps. I found a path I was willing and able to follow, and I took it. However, I don't plan on falling like they did. I have the edge. I am intelligent, wealthy, of good reputation, and most importantly, I can learn from their mistakes. That is the greatest irony of their deaths; each could have been avoided if only they had been expecting an assassination attempt, and built up their security beforehand. They could have _lived_, if they had the foresight to expect such animosity.

I have the foresight, and I have put it to good use.

**vVv**

My life began in 1939. My parents had immigrated to America when my mother was seven months pregnant with me. No sooner had they found a spacious New York town home to live in than I was born. I would be their only child.

I grew up in the city, going to a public school in our wealthy neighborhood. I remember my mother insisting I go to a private school, but my father refused each time she brought it up.

"Adrian needs to see the world how it is," he would say through his thick German inflection and a lit cigar, without looking up from his newspaper.

And every time, my mother would reply: "Adrian is too little to be exposed to this callous city!" She bore an accent, too- English. I never asked how my parents originally met, but I believe they found each other during the World War, when my father was building up his fortune. He had owned a weapons and armor business, with seemingly unrelated branches selling to both sides. For a man of average intelligence, he was very shrewd.

I digress.

I always resented when my mother made claims that I was too young or too small to understand the world of adults. How could she even suggest that, when I was speaking at one year old, and reading and writing before I was three? Both of my parents seemed to agree that the world was beyond my grasp, and it was frustrating beyond end.

I took out my frustration at school, pushing myself ever onward, until I was so far beyond my classmates mentally, I was all but ostracized socially. The few friendships I maintained were tentative, uncertain bonds, ultimately ending with the other child fading out of my life. One after another, they dropped away, until fourth grade, when I was finally alone.

I would be lying if I said I wasn't a bit relieved. Their absence gave me more time to think, and practice, and excel. It was a bitter trade, though- I began craving human attention. My parents were no help. Father was always working, and Mother didn't want to be reminded how advanced I was.

In the second grade, a bewildered teacher called her into school. He thought I was cheating somehow, because I was getting perfect marks on every assignment. He thought that, maybe, my mother was doing my work for me. She didn't defend me, but fought for her own image, insisting that she would never do my work for me. The issue was only resolved a few years later, when I had to take my first state tests. In such isolated testing conditions, it was clear I hadn't cheated to achieve my near perfect scores. On top of that, the ones I got wrong were because of flaws with the test itself: faulty information, overly simplified approximations, and more. The teachers were in awe of me; my classmates resented me. My mother was flustered. My father was pleased.

I entirely skipped the sixth, seventh, and eighth grades, becoming the youngest student in the freshman class at age eleven. I definitely stood out; a prepubescent, gangly child in a herd of hulking teenagers.

My size brought its own dangers. My peers envied me, and in their jealousy, they became violent. My only option was to correct my only weakness by working out my comparatively frail body. My mother worried herself over my sudden change in attitude around the house, my obvious interests shifting from those of the mind to those of the body. My father, seeing my efforts, enrolled me in self defense classes. My mother, as if to combat or cancel out her spouse's efforts, put me in gymnastics. I excelled in both, working on furthering my intelligence in all other spare time, and gradually, the fitness of my body rivaled the fitness of my mind. I was no longer troubled by the goons at my school. Their caution drowned out their hatred.

My mother died my sophomore year. It was a beautiful day, warm and sunny. The school term was nearly at an end. All of my classmates had lost the will to put forth a final month of effort in their work, intoxicated by the spring, making me one of the few who kept it up and maintained good marks. I was taking history notes (the only one in my class even paying attention) when a freshman two years older than me interrupted the class by knocking on the door. He had a scrap of paper in his hand.

"Excuse me, sir, I'm supposed to take…" He checked the paper he held, squinting farsightedly. "Adrian Veidt, to the office." He had mispronounced my name, giving the "ei" the sound of a long "a." Neither the teacher nor myself bothered to correct him.

"Go on, Adrian," Professor Hughes told me, and I left the class, following the older, lesser student to the office in silence.

Inside the small office, there were two grim policemen waiting, hats in their hands. The elder, a friendly but tired looking man, crouched down to my level. He meant nothing by it, but it struck me condescending at the time.

"Son," he had said, real sympathy in his eyes and voice, "Your mother's had an accident. She passed away about an hour ago."

I would find out later that the accident was no accident at all, but a mugging gone bad (rather, worse), and she had been lying in an alley _dying_ for about six hours before she was found and taken to the hospital, where her body finally failed her.

To say I mourned would be an overstatement. I was never particularly attached to my mother, who was never pleased with the child she had. I was much closer to my father, though even we were occasionally estranged because of our contrasting political and religious views. No, I was appropriately solemn at the wake (closed casket) and funeral, and promptly went on with my life after that. My only regret is that her end was so violent. She may have been a foolish, overbearing woman, but I did love her in a vague way.

My father was only slightly more affected than I was. I suspect they may have only married because they found out my mother was pregnant and my father was too proud to abandon her like a cad. He, too, seemed regretful that she went the way she did, but he never openly seemed deeply disturbed by her passing.

Barely a year later, my father fell ill with a severe case of what seemed to be pneumonia. I made him go to the hospital when he only got worse, where it was determined that on top of his infection, he had an inoperable case of lung cancer. They gave him five years. He only made it four. Still, he lasted long enough to see me graduate as valedictorian of my class, and begin my higher education at Columbia University. I was studying history and business there, suddenly among peers of my level of intelligence and loving it. I could be myself and be normal, something I formerly considered a paradox. I didn't have friends- to think that for a second would be foolish. What I had were colleagues, people I could speak intelligently to. A few of them were even about my age. It was like a dream, where every moment seemed crystal clear as they happened, but were fuzzy and glazed over when reminisced upon even a few minutes later.

The dream died with my father, and his journey to the underworld cued my journey to Turkey.

Being the only son of two wealthy, and now deceased, parents, I inherited a fortune. I knew I was meant to do more than lounge pointlessly about, though, and even Columbia was somehow lacking in my eyes. I craved something I couldn't name. Perhaps it was the tangibility of a physical journey into adulthood to match my earlier mental passage, or the need to travel in search of my identity. Because, after all, there was only one man I could ever relate to. A man whom I never met, because of a two thousand year gap casting us apart. I am certain, though, that we are of kindred minds, he and I. He strove for peace and unity, something I always valued. Alexander of Macedonia… He rose out of nothing and ruled in harmony with his people into old age, collecting knowledge and treasure for all to share in his legendary library in Alexandria.

The day after my father's funeral (a quick affair, nearly as painless as my mother's and much more anticipated) I boarded a ship to Europe. On a whim, I purchased my ticket and donated the rest of my riches to charity, keeping only enough to travel on. I would forge my own way, after following Alexander's. The next few weeks were spent in quiet anticipation on the ocean's dark swells, and I found myself pouring constantly over chronicles of Alexander's accomplishments. He was my idol, my _inspiration_, and I was compelled by my studies at Columbia to make a pilgrimage to follow in his footsteps the first opportunity I was given.

When the ship docked in France, I lingered only very briefly before catching a train farther into the east, followed by another journey by ship across the Mediterranean Sea. When we finally docked in northern Turkey, my real expedition began. I traced Alexander across the continent, and satisfy my burning wanderlust in the process.

My journey lasted only a month, give or take, but every day, every hour, every _second_ brought a wave of inspiration. The reason Alexander's world was in such disarray was because there were too many kingdoms, city-states, nomes, empires… Once he united them under one rule, the warfare ceased. The people were happy, because they were kindred by way of state. Alexander had even encouraged marriages between races, binding them subsequently by blood.

I mulled this over for the next year, as I built my own economic empire, and regained the riches I'd handed freely away. I witnessed the city around me fall deeper into poverty and crime, even as they lifted me up on their shoulders. And I was saddened. The people I watched from my top floor window crawled sluggishly on the sidewalks below, like ants mindlessly slaving for a queen they never met.

Why couldn't we take a leaf from his book? Our streets are ridden with horrors and blood. The night belongs to murderers, rapists, and thieves. Alexander brought about peace by physically uniting the nations. His method was his army, something that couldn't possibly work in our modern day without further fracturing Earth's people.

So my eyes turned to heroes.

If there were enough masked adventurers, I reasoned, street violence could be quashed, through fear and brute force. Or, perhaps, if there was only _one more_ hero, one with the resources and means to single-handedly conquer the night… Perhaps the peace instilled in New York City could inspire other towns to become more placid. If not, more extraordinary citizens would follow the example, and take to the streets in masks.

I took the initiative. I became Ozymandias. And I conquered the city.

**vVv**

_I never meant…_

**vVv**

_a/n: Sorry if it's boring. I just don't want to delve into Adrian's character without a fair introduction. Everybody knows who the President of the United States is, and _he_ still gets introduced whenever he steps into a room. It's a respect thing. I promise with all my heart, this fic will get better as it goes on._


	3. Chapter 3

----------**Chapter-2----------**

When I began my phase as Ozymandias, I was the only truly active adventurer, besides the Comedian. The others were old, and failing. Hollis Mason retired four years after I debuted, in 1962, though he was relatively inactive for a few years before then. Byron Lewis was already falling into alcoholism, drinking himself into a stupor as many nights as he deigned to clean the streets. Captain Metropolis, too, was no longer a formidable fighter; he was nearly useless altogether, considering his prejudices and amateur tactical skills.

Jon was around then, as well, but he had no interest in protecting our race as he might have. He obeyed the American government, but I could tell by speaking to him that it wouldn't last forever.

However, new heroes were rising swiftly from the ashes of the old. Almost as soon as Mason retired, a new Nite Owl appeared, overflowing with useful devices and vehicles. He was smart, but naïve. He wasn't a threat; I was almost impressed by his good nature combined with his engineering expertise.

Two years later, Rorschach faded into view. His appearance wasn't as instantaneous as the others had been; he almost snuck into being, slowly working his way from the shadows of anonymity. For all I know, even to this day, he had been operating long before then, but nobody had noticed. Regardless, he was a tactical genius. His overly careful plans nearly always worked, and when they didn't, it was because of human error. He was something special, for better or for worse.

Another two years after that, Laurie Juspeczyk was initiated as Silk Spectre II, appearing for the first time at a meeting called by Captain Metropolis.

The meeting came as a surprise to all of us, I believe. Even I, who am always looking ahead, did not see it coming. One rainy March night as I was patrolling, I was confronted by the aging Captain, who requested my presence at his assembly later that week. I agreed, interested by the ambiguity.

So, too, did the other new adventurers. They only other Minuteman to attend was the Comedian, and judging by our self-appointed leader's reaction, he was uninvited. He swaggered in like he always does, newspaper in one hand and a cigar jammed in his mouth. He picked out a seat in silence, as Captain Metropolis, Jon, Miss Slater, Silk Spectre, and I looked on. He kicked his feet up on a desk, and immersed himself in his paper without a word. Metropolis gaped at him for a moment, and then looked away as Nite Owl and Rorschach arrived together, the latter trailing slightly behind his partner. They were an odd match, I always thought. If it weren't for Rorschach's persistent aversion to homosexuality, and relationships in general, I would have thought them partners in more way than one.

My thoughts were drawn back to Captain Metropolis when he began to speak, a bit nervously at first, but quickly regaining his confidence.

"Well, firstly, let me say I'm pleased to see so many of you here." He shot a glance at the Comedian (still absorbed in his newspaper, and all but ignoring the meeting) that said otherwise. "_Very_ pleased."

I, too, was somewhat distracted. Or, rather, I was multitasking, both listening and watching my comrades. Jon was staring at Silk Spectre in his odd way. She stared back, legs kicking over the edge of the heavy machine she was perched on. Miss Slater seemed upset. Nite Owl and Rorschach only watched in silence as Metropolis continued.

"Secondly, for those who only know me as Captain Metropolis, the name's Nelson Gardner. Call me Nelson." It was just one more sign that he needed to retire. When in costume, you are the hero. To go by your street name… It's a blasphemy, a mockery of all we stood for. "Third, uh, I guess I should welcome everyone to the first ever meeting of the Crimebusters!" The silence was one of shock and discomfort. It was a good idea, I thought, but with this fat, biased old man as our leader? It couldn't end well. The Comedian, as if to break the film of ice, loudly burped. So he had _some_ tact, even if it was well, tactless. Metropolis shifted uncomfortably, sensing the reluctance around him. "Why 'the Crimebusters?' Well, as you know, this country hasn't had an organization of masked adventurer's since the Minutemen disbanded in '49."

So that was his motive. He _knew_ he was getting old. His friends and colleagues had been dropping like flies around him, leaving only the somehow youthful, disagreeable Comedian as a bitter reminder. He wanted to remain part of a group, in order to retain what was left of his glory days. It was pathetic. He wanted this group for selfish motives, rather than the country's wellbeing.

"Specialized law enforcement is standing still," Metropolis continued, beseeching the younger generation with his eyes. "Crime isn't. New social evils emerge every day: promiscuity, drugs, campus subversion, you name it! Now, by banding together as the Crimebusters, we-"

"_Bullshit_," the Comedian interrupted at long last, drawing everybody's attention to him. His face was still hidden from them behind his paper. Seated behind him, I could glance over his armored shoulder and see the article he was reading. It was about the Princess of the Netherlands, and her controversial marriage to German Claus von Amsberg.

"What?" Captain Metropolis asked, horrified by his old comrade's outburst.

"I said _bullshit_. This whole idea, this Crimebusters shtick, it stinks." He lowered his paper with a faint rustle. Laurie seemed amused by his gruff antics. Miss Slater was tugging on Jon's arm, whispering something to him. I don't think it had anything to do with the Comedian. Nite Owl was glancing almost frantically between the Minutemen; Rorschach was staring at the Comedian, hands buried in his pockets. "What it is, _Nelly_, is that you're gettin' old and you wanna go on playin' cowboys and Indians." I was somewhat surprised by his insight. So he had noticed, as well.

"Th-that's not true…" By his stunned expression, I could tell the Comedian and I had hit the nail on the head. It was despicable. Always the peacemaker, Nite Owl spoke up.

"Uh, listen. Let's not throw the idea out right away. Me and Rorschach have made headway into the gang problem by pooling our efforts..." He was interrupted by his own partner, though.

"Obviously I agree," he blandly stated, "but a group this size seems more like a publicity exercise somehow. It's too big and unwieldy." I had to step in, before too many of us decided against a fraternity of heroes.

"Surely, that's just an organizational problem?" I asked him rhetorically. I could feel him staring at me with unseen X-Ray eyes, though it hardly bothered me. How could he possibly understand me, and my motives? He crossed his arms, and I perceived that he was only waiting for me to finish before he continued. "With the right person coordinating the group, I think…" I trailed off as the Comedian rose with a soft grunt, placing his paper on the desk his feet had just vacated. He turned to face me, eyes glinting scathingly.

"Oh, an' I _wonder_ who _that_ would be," he growled, standing over me, trying to intimidate. "Got any ideas, Ozzy? I mean, you _are_ the smartest guy in the _world_, right?" And there he went, trying to suggest my intelligence somehow impaired me, or gave me a sense of superiority, when it was really _he_ who felt like he was above the populace. I easily deflected him.

"It doesn't require a genius to see that America has problems that need tackling," I calmly replied, carefully maintaining my tranquility.

"Damn straight," the Comedian affirmed, puffing out a cloud of rancid smoke. "An' it takes a _moron_ to think they're small enough for clowns like you guys to handle. What's going down in this world, you got _no_ idea. Believe me." Oh, I knew, just as well as he did. There was a war waging- how could anybody overlook that? But a war didn't mean our efforts in cleaning up the streets here at home were for naught. Why couldn't he _see_ that? I don't pretend to understand the thought processes of men as deranged as the Comedian. So, slightly annoyed, I formed my argument.

"I think I'm as well-informed as anyone. Given correct handling, none of the world's problems are insurmountable. All it takes is a little intelligence."

"Which you got in _spades_, right?" He turned away from me before I could combat his inflammatory remark. "You people are a joke. You hear Moloch's back in town, you think 'oh _boy_, let's _gang up_ and _bust_ him!' You think that _matters_? You think that _solves_ anything?"

"Well, of course it matters," Rorschach replied. "If-"

"It don't matter _squat_." The Comedian's remark was like a slap in the face for Rorschach. He recoiled slightly, and fell silent. The Comedian didn't notice, he had turned to Metropolis' chart, flicking his lighter open. "Lemme show you _why_ it don't matter." He struck a flame, and held it to the corner of the page.

"_Hey_! Wh-what are you _doing_?" Captain Metropolis had lost control, and was hovering in the background, a noise without meaning. I could feel a dark knot in my stomach forming. Nothing was going as it should have.

"It don't matter squat because inside thirty years the nukes are gonna' be flying like _maybugs_." The chart took the fire, letting it crawl slowly up its edges. Metropolis groaned in dismay.

"My _display_…" And in that moment, I was as disgusted with him as the Comedian was.

"And then Ozzy here is gonna' be the smartest man on the _cinder_. Now, pardon _me_, but I got an appointment. See you in the funny papers." I stood frozen, watching the heroes and heroine file from the room on the Comedian's heels, in varying degrees of disappointment.

I stayed behind as Captain Metropolis chased after them, begging them to come back, to hear him out. I examined the charred display. Perhaps heroes _weren't_ enough. Could it be that the Comedian was right? Could it be that this masked adventuring was useless unless something larger prevented a nuclear holocaust?

No. Not something.

Someone.

When I finally left the conference room, my mind was on greater things than ever before. My days as Ozymandias were numbered; I would keep the moniker only as long as it aided me in my tasks. And then…

Why, I would be a modern Alexander. I would bring the world together, even if it meant I would have to hold a blade to its throat. The lands would be united.

And I would be their harbinger of peace.

**vVv**

_You must understand…_

**vVv**

_a/n: Well? Was it much better? I certainly hope so. Only a chapter or so more of Ozy's self-righteous reminiscing, and then we'll get to the juicy unknown future. Are you excited? I am. Let's do this thang_ =D


	4. Chapter 4

**----------Chapter-3----------**

The ten years following the disastrous Crimebusters meeting passed in a blur of careful scheming and regulation, on my part. Slowly, the idea sparked in me as I examined the torched remains of Captain Metropolis' display of American immoralities was tended into a beautiful plan; a _terrible_ plan.

America would be reborn, by my hands. But first, she would have to burn.

My heart ached at the thought then; it chokes and dies, now. The only consoling thought is that it had to be done. My only comfort is that there is finally peace. But at what cost? Millions of innocent people died at my hands, and now their families and friends look up to me like a god.

My plan was simple- I could never understand how nobody had thought of it sooner. Through some world paradox, good fortune tears nations apart, while tragedy cements them. If something truly atrocious were to happen to a city, say, _New York_, America's allies would rush to her aid, and her enemies, out of fear of further attack by the mysterious power that wreaked havoc in the Empire City, would eagerly make amends. The world would unite if threatened by an otherworldly force.

My eyes turned to Doctor Manhattan.

Common decency prevented me from using the man himself as my scapegoat, but I needed his power to put my plan in motion. The other parts of my plan were easy to handle; I had already poured a fortune into genetic engineering, and had picked out a select staff of artists to consult later. My conversation with Doctor Manhattan could have been just as easy… Or it could have been the hardest part of all.

I organized a meeting with him in his home in 1971. It was more of a laboratory than anything, with attached living quarters. Laurie Juspeczyk was the one to receive me at the door. She seemed surprised.

"Ozzy?" She had taken up the Comedian's nickname for me. I didn't care for that, but I ignored it.

"Adrian," I corrected her. It had been a while since the rest of my associates learned my identity. Or, more accurately, it had been a while since I had informed them of my identity. It was crucial for the next stage of my plan. "I'm here to speak with Jon."

"Oh- he's in the back… Let me take you to him." She was so young, then. She hadn't outgrown her girlish demeanor, and still believed that Jon could love her. I never enlightened her.

By 'in the back,' Laurie was referring to the large office adjacent to a gymnasium sized room filled with mysterious equipment. I was intrigued; I wanted to know what every gadget did and how. It had to wait, though. I needed to speak with Jon.

"It is good to see you, Adrian," he said, drawing my attention to where he sat at a metal desk, making complex designs on a large sheet of paper. Probably blueprints for one of his creations. I watched as he effortlessly drew a perfect circle. "You'd like to speak with me about replicating my power."

"Yes," I said, down to business. Seeing that we were speaking science, Laurie backed out of the room, disinterested in the subject she couldn't understand. "I feel it would help our world immensely if we could replicate and distribute your power. Think of it, Jon. Clean, free energy would cause a chain reaction in the socioeconomic system system. There would be no need for petrol, and pollution would drop drastically. Countries such as Saudi Arabia and Iran would lose their hold on developed countries. I would appreciate if you would work with me towards this cause, Jon."

"That's very humanitarian of you, Adrian," he responded, without looking up from his own plans. Methodically, he drew a series of parallel lines, each proportionally smaller than the one that came before. Not for the first time, I felt like the intrinsic man knew my true motives. And yet… "I shall consider a scientific partnership with you. But, for now, I have other matters to attend to." He gestured vaguely at his schematics. "Goodbye, Adrian."

"Thank you, Jon," I said, slightly surprised by the ease at which I managed to get Jon to consider helping me. "I'll be seeing you soon."

And I did. Within the month, I was approached by him as I patrolled the night alone, pondering the deeds I was doomed to. Was I making the right choice? Was it a choice I could make? Would it be better to let humanity play it out naturally? Removed from the norm as I was, I had only two options. Stand back impartially, like Jon, or strive onwards, struggling for the sake of the people. I chose to fight for what I believe in. You must understand, it was the only way I saw to save the world. It was the _only way_.

Jon only cemented my plans. He came to me, agreeing to my suggestion. We were to start our collaborative work as soon as I could have a workspace built. In the meantime, I was reminded of another, equally important part of my plan by the arrival of several scientists at my Veidt Enterprises building. I was in my office when they arrived, strutting out of the elevator and into my view with a most astounding creature on a leash. She prowled silently and placidly amongst them, shoulders coming halfway up their thighs. She clashed with their white lab coats, her crimson fur silky and clean. Spiky ears jutted forward as she approached me, and a long striped tail swayed behind her. She was beautiful.

"For you, Mr. Veidt, for your generous contributions to our research. She is a modified lynx. We thought she would appeal to your tastes," one of the scientists said, smiling politely. "Take my word, she is entirely tame, and quite friendly, though she is just as protective as any Rottweiler."

"She is sublime," I said, coming around my desk to examine the creature further. She filled me with wonder, and also dread- her creation cued phase two of my plan. I held a hand out to her muzzle, letting her smell, and then lick, my hand. "Does she have a name?"

"Not yet." I mulled over possibilities for half a second. Lynx. Lynxes are cats. The Egyptian cat goddess is Bastet. But this was not Bast, this was a tribute to her. A namesake. There is a region in Egypt named after Bast. It is called-

"Bubastis. Her name is Bubastis." They beamed at me. "I would be delighted to work further with your company. Tell your coordinator that I would like to rent a team of scientists, if you will. I have a project I'd like your facility's help with."

**vVv**

Needless to say… My planning was flawless. Everything moved smoothly, and nobody suspected anything until the very end. I should be rejoicing. Millions are dead. I am all alone. I get to live with this uncertainty for the rest of my life. Yes, it's definitely something to celebrate.

The world is finally united in peace. My mind is absorbed in its own civil war.

I am plagued by useless questions, too late to matter. Is what I did wrong? I want to think not, but I _am_ only human. Was it worth it? There are some five billion people obliviously living a lie, and looking up to me. They think I am their savior. Am I? Or am I their destroyer? Rorschach believed me a monster. He wanted to tell the world the truth about me, about the Event… Now, I almost wish I had let him. Every day, I feel this oppressive weight on my shoulders, and I despair. Is this how Atlas felt, supporting the world on his bowed back?

I wonder if Jon knew of my plans before even I did. When he moved to the Rockefeller Center, he had commissioned an artist to embellish the campus with sculptures designed by one Lee Lawrie, who died in a bank robbery towards the end of the Minutemen's reign. The most prominent of these sculptures was Atlas, struggling under his burden. I saw it every time I visited. Maybe he was telling me something. Maybe he was trying, in vain, to change the future, although he claimed only to be a puppet, with no such ability. Perhaps he could only challenge the future in indirect ways, sneaking up from the side and catching it off guard. I'll never know.

My final conversation with Jon left me uneasy. He didn't support what I did, but his didn't scold me, either. He genuinely didn't care any more. But his words still ring in my ears, and… I'm scared.

I had asked him if I had done the right thing. It had all turned out in the end, and the world was saved, just like in the Saturday cartoons American children liked so much these days. The good guy came swooping in, and saved the day.

Jon's face had twitched. Translated to the mannerisms of ordinary men, it would have been a snort of derision, I'm certain.

"'In the end?'" He had questioned me, staring with those unearthly white eyes of his. "Nothing ends, Adrian. Nothing _ever_ ends."

But I can't believe that. I can't. Because if I do- if I _choose_ to believe the word of the intrinsic man, then I would have committed genocide for nothing. My entire life… It would have been wasted. I can't believe it. I _can't_. You _must_ understand, I never meant for- you _have_ to understand!

**vVv**

Adrian pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes, trying to ward off tears. He was sitting in a tiny, dark cubicle. A screen was set into the wall to his left. Behind it was a shadowy figure, silent and still. They sat like that for several minutes, Adrian shaking with silent sobs, and the man on the other side of the screen completely motionless, as if trying to absorb all that had been said.

"You are directly responsible for the deaths of _millions _of people." Adrian wordlessly nodded, hands sliding over his ears. He rocked slightly in his seat. A gasping sob tore from his throat. "I cannot absolve you of this," the man whispered. Adrian groped at the screen with one hand, as if to physically reach for forgiveness.

"I only meant well! I only- only-!"

"_The road to hell is paved with good intentions_," the man muttered almost inaudibly. "Good day..." And the man rose from his own seat, pushing through a heavy drape to an outside room. Adrian howled in emotional agony, clutching desperately at himself. Like a beaten dog, he stumbled from his cubicle, into the nave of a majestic church, brightly lit by sunlight streaming through stained glass. A pudgy priest with graying hair was walking swiftly away from the reconciliation chambers, hands clenched into fists.

"You have to forgive me!" Adrian howled, tears streaming down his face. He stumbled, and fell to his knees. "_You have to!_" The priest paused, bowing his head.

"I am forbidden to speak of our meeting to anybody, yes. But I cannot exonerate you. You came to be told you did the right thing, not to be pardoned by God… Hubris is a deadly sin. Good _day_." And he walked away, leaving Adrian to cry on the floor of the church, totally alone.


	5. Chapter 5

**----------Chapter-4----------**

No birds chirped when the sun rose on March 5 of 1986, and the resident of 522 St. Marks Avenue stumbled down the stairs of his crumbling brownstone. He was wearing a blue bathrobe and a pair of sneakers, but little else as he opened his door and snatched the papers from his doorstep.

Papers. Plural.

Suddenly, he found himself very much awake. He slammed the door and absentmindedly turned the deadbolt, eager to review his findings. He stepped into the kitchen and poured himself a glass of orange juice, eyes never leaving the _New Frontiersman_ in his other hand.

Seeing a title and page number on the front page, he eagerly set down his drink on a counter and flipped through the crisp pages. Page 2, the happenings at the latest meeting amongst world leaders. Page 4, some conspiracy theory. Page 5… there! "Fourth Term a Reality?" by one Winston Smith.

He sank into a chair at his kitchen table, exhilarated, as he read through the entire article, though he already knew what it said. He _had_, after all, been the one to write it. Still, it was different seeing it in the _Frontiersman_ than typewritten on some scrap paper and looking very unofficial. It was always a delight to find that second, early copy of the paper on his porch, and pleasure was hard to come by these days.

Upon finishing, he carefully refolded the paper. He would have to put it in the filing cabinet with the others, unread except for his own article; on principle, he never read any other article before the paper became mainstream.

Pleased with himself, he returned to his glass of orange juice, and let himself get lost in this week's paper. Nothing could ruin his mood.

Or so he thought.

**. ] [ .**

He was drawn away from the T.V. later that day by the insistent ringing of his phone. Groaning, he pulled himself to his feet, and shuffled across the room to where his phone sat on a coffee table. He cleared his throat, and then answered it.

"Hello?"

"Joe? It's Greg."

"Yeah, hey man. What's up?" Joe raised his eyebrows, slightly surprised.

"Did you have an article in the next _Frontiersman_?"

"Yeaaah…" a bewildered Joe responded slowly.

"Uh, listen. Are you busy right now? Can you meet me at the Burgers N Borscht on 40th and 7th?" He sounded stressed, and confused, and was moving a little too quickly for Joe to follow.

"Wait- what? What's wrong?"

"I, uh… I'd rather talk about it in person. Can you get here?"

"Sure, man, sure, just… Just let me change, okay? I'll be there in thirty."

"See you then." And without another word, Greg hung up.

"See you then," Joe echoed pointlessly, perplexed, as he put the phone back in its cradle. Jesus, Gregory Stock! Greg, who was always coming up with political cartoons and illustrations for the paper… He hadn't seen him in _ages_. Not since June of last year, probably, when Greg had revealed his bisexuality. Since then, things had been a bit weird between them. Sure, Joe had no problem with gay people- but to think that he had gone out _drinking_ with this man, and had been bouncing ideas off him over lunch… He couldn't help but wonder if Greg looked at him _that way_.

On that thought, he looked down at himself, appraising his own body. He wasn't a bad looking guy. He was young, only twenty-four years old, and wasn't overweight. Then again, he wasn't particularly tall or muscular either, and had a boyish face adorned with unattractive mouse brown hair and permanent dark circles under his eyes. The latter were the product of the squid alien. Joe had been one of the luckiest New Yorkers, living only a few miles outside of the alien's impact radius (_death radius_, he told himself, but "impact radius" was the official term). However, he was also one of the unluckiest, plagued by relentless nightmares every time he drifted to sleep. More than once he woke up in the middle of the night, covered in cold sweat and screaming at the top of his lungs. He wasn't the only one, either- he had heard similar wailing coming from neighboring houses. Their neighborhood, though significantly emptier since the beginning of November, sounded like an insane asylum when the sun went down.

He had talked to his doctor about it, once, when he was so exhausted, he could make no headway on an article he was chipping away at.

"I'm exhausted. I keep falling asleep everywhere. At the table, in the taxi, over my typewriter. And when I sleep, I have such horrible nightmares-" He shuddered. "-that my body can't rest at all. And I wake up an hour, two hours later, more exhausted than I was when I fell asleep. I can't work. Can you give me something? To make the nightmares stop?" The doctor listened in grim silence. Joseph Laye was not the first patient of his asking for sedatives. It felt like that was all he prescribed these days. Sighing, he scribbled the title of a new drug on his prescription pad.

"I can't stop the nightmares, but I can give you something to make you sleep. Take one half an hour before you go to bed. Make sure you have eight hours dedicated to sleep. _Do not take more than prescribed_. This drug is very concentrated, specifically made by Veidt Medical for Event survivors. It's very dangerous if you overdose. Understand?" Joe had nodded, grateful beyond words, and took the slip of paper handed to him.

That was four months ago. Although Joe was able to sleep, now, it was still unpleasant. He had taken to rising early and staying up late, because of it.

He brushed the thoughts away, though, as he climbed the stairs to his bedroom once more, to change into something presentable. What could Greg possibly need from him so urgently, after months with no contact between the two?

A few minutes later, he descended in jeans and a red plaid shirt over a white tank. It was casual, but at least they were _clothes_- Joe had trouble finding the energy for menial tasks such as clothing himself. He had lost a lot, in the Event. His immediate family had lived within the radius; only his college-aged sister survived, having gone to a friend's Halloween party in the western suburbs. His girlfriend had died, too; she had worked in an office building near the epicenter.

If he were honest with himself, Joe would admit he was depressed. He sat up watching television all day, almost never leaving the house for fear something would remind him of what he lost. When he wasn't loafing, he was drowning his sorrows at a local bar, or writing, something that came much harder to him now than ever before. It was difficult to write about current events without mentioning _the_ current Event.

The streets were empty when he finally left the house. It was to be expected; new tenants had yet to move in to the vacated brownstones in the area, replacing those that had died or fled. He still managed to catch a stray taxi, though, and was at Burgers N Borsch ten minutes sooner than expected. It didn't matter; he could see Greg's hulking form through the windows, tapping his fingers anxiously on the table he was seated at. Joe slipped his driver a few singles, and then exited his taxi, staring at his old friend. He seemed really nervous about something.

Curious, Joe entered the small restaurant. Seeing him, Greg waved him over. Joe complied, sliding into the seat across from him.

Gregory Stock was a large man, standing at about six and a half feet tall, with a huge frame supported by copious amounts of muscle, and a fair bit of fat. He had the snarly brown beard of a mountain-man, and piercing blue eyes. Altogether, Greg was a stunning kind of guy. If his art ever failed to pan out, he could make a fortune as a bouncer somewhere.

"So, what's up?" Joe asked as a waitress approached. Greg remained silent until Joe had ordered a coffee and she moved along.

"I was supposed to have one of my political cartoons published in next week's _Frontiersman_," he started, eyebrows knitting together. "Funny one, about Nixon sticking his nose into everything." Joe waited patiently, used to the roundabout way Greg would tell a story. "Well, the early copy of the paper was on my front stoop this morning, as usual. I didn't really look at it, but I saw that Larry Goode had an article in it. Jim Grieves, too. I just kind of tossed it aside, though, you know?" His friend nodded slowly, awaiting the point. "Well, barely twenty minutes later, some official looking guys are beating on my door. Black suits, sunglasses, unmarked sedan on the street." This piqued Joe's interest.

"Government?"

"Dunno, man," Greg admitted, stirring his own coffee with a straw. "But they knew who I was. 'Gregory Stock,' their leader was shouting. 'Open the door! We know you're there.'"

"Did you?"

"Are you kidding? That Veidt might be funding a cleanup operation to end street violence, but I'm no idiot. Of course I didn't open it. I asked what they wanted." Greg paused, staring at Joe, hand still turning the stirring straw in an endless circular path through his drink.

"What did they want?" Joe dutifully asked after a moment of silence.

"My newspaper." He stopped stirring, and took a sip of his coffee. Joe ignored his. "Said it was 'imperative' that I hand it over to them. Somebody wrote something, I'm guessing, that their employer didn't like very much."

"And did you give it to them?"

"I had no choice, man. They kicked my door in."

"You're kidding." Joe stared at the goliath, doubtful of his story. Greg only smiled wryly, and slapped something small and rectangular on the table. A Polaroid. Joe reached out for it, and slid it closer. Sure enough, it depicted Greg's front door, splintered where the lock had been and hanging wide open. He blew out a low whistle. "You're _not_ kidding. What then?"

"They pulled guns on me and demanded my _Frontiersman_. I decided it would be wise to cooperate. They asked if I'd read it; I said no. Then," he said, leaning in conspiratorially before continuing in a hushed voice, "they asked me about Winston Smith. If I knew who he was, and where he lived."

"Shit," Joe breathed, suddenly understanding why Greg had asked him to come.

"I said I didn't know the guy," Greg said, leaning away again and sighing. "They didn't question it, only took my paper and left. I thought you should know that somebody's got it out for you, though."

"I didn't do anything," Joe declared, glancing around nervously, as if he expected the assailants to be sitting at a table behind him.

"Was it your article, maybe? Did you make any accusations?"

"None the other journalists haven't already made. It was about Nixon and his maybe-fourth term. Not exactly controversial material. Maybe they just wanted my paper. You know, tie up loose ends." They sat in silence for a moment.

"…Why haven't they found you before now, then? I mean, obviously, you use a pen name, but…"

"I was careful," Joe replied wearily, squeezing the bridge of his nose in an attempt to stem his blossoming headache. "When you write for a paper like the _Frontiersman_, you can't be _too_ careful. They have nothing on me. Checks go to the post office, and I pick them up there."

"Then who delivers your early copy of the paper?"

"I have a friend in the office who works nights. He drops them off on his way home; he lives a couple miles from here."

"Do you… still have it?" They stared in silence at each other. Joe broke it.

"To be honest, I don't think I want to know what's in it. Not if it warrants a group of hostile men breaking my door down and holding me at gunpoint to get at it."

"It could be important," argued Greg, finishing his coffee.

"It could be _nothing_. Somebody probably just speculated that some government official is cheating on his wife, and now the guy's trying to cover it up." Joe slapped a five dollar bill on the table, and rose, chair skittering out behind him, across the tiled floor. "I'll be seeing you, Greg." The wild looking man only watched wistfully as his estranged friend left the building and vanished from sight.


	6. Chapter 6

**----------Chapter-5----------**

When Joe got home, the paper was still sitting on his table, where he had left it. After locking his door behind him and making sure he wasn't being watched or followed, he stepped slowly into his kitchen. Warily, he approached the table as if the _Frontiersman_ were a venomous snake. He was measured, and quiet, and when he pulled out a chair and sat down, it was a very cautious motion. Joe sank slowly into the seat, staring at the seemingly innocent newspaper, and with the utmost caution, he reached out and pulled it over by the very corner, as if too much contact would be dangerous. So far, so good.

He stopped himself from looking, though, fingers still pinching the paper's edge. Did he want to know? Curiosity was known to kill more than just cats. Greg was held at gunpoint, and they asked about _him_. There was something worth killing over in this paper. Was it worth it? Was it worth his life?

"What life?" he scoffed bitterly, and began reading. What was left to lose?

Page one said little; it was just talking about the Event again, and the aid being given to survivors. This forced a sardonic smile out of him. Joe hadn't seen a penny. Hell, his insurance wouldn't even cover his sleeping pills.

Page two. Nixon had met with Gorbachev and several others in Brussels to discuss the situation in New York, and the development of planetary defense against any possible attacks in the future. Nothing fantastic there.

Page three. Multiple predictions for the future of the world. One prediction led to unending peace, another to total nuclear destruction. A third suggested a more moderate middle ground, where the world went on as normal. A filler article, really. And there was Greg's cartoon, next to a snippet about the president's actions in the ten or so years of his time in office. Greg had been telling the truth, this comic was a good one. Still, nothing that called for kicking in doors to steal newspapers.

Page four. The typical conspiracy theory. There always seemed to be one in every issue of this newspaper. This time, they claimed the journal of the vigilante Rorschach had been found, and it cited "proof" that Adrian _Veidt_, the man behind the rebuilding effort, had somehow caused the whole thing. The article was almost entirely vague, with only a short quote from the journal, comparing the city to a diseased dog. The whole piece reeked of a crazed writer's fanciful imagination.

Page five, of course, featured his own article, along with two smaller ones. One of them discussed politics in sports, and how the local political parties directly influenced which teams were good and bad each year, and even which games would be won or lost. The other was a sarcastic critique about the suddenly lax police force, and how, though they claimed that crime was down in New York since the attack, just as many people were being mugged each night. They claimed this was because of the absence of one illegal masked adventurer who hadn't been seen since All Souls' Day last year, and was presumed to be one of the dead amongst the millions.

Frustrated, Joe swiped the newspaper off of his table. There was nothing earth-shattering hiding in those thin pages. There was _nothing_ out of the norm. Perhaps one of the mentioned officials was just feeling a bit paranoid, and sicced their personal guard on the _Frontiersman_'s staff in retaliation. It was ridiculous.

Suddenly, he found himself tired, and drained of all his former excitement. Yes, excitement- he hadn't realized the thrill of his literary hunt until it was over. It had been slightly scary, yes, but it had given him a delicious adrenaline rush in the process. Now, he was just exhausted, and thirsty.

Sighing, he bent over, and snatched the newspaper from the floor, smoothing its pages, before rising from his seat and retrieving his keys. When the going gets tough, the tough get going. And he was going to the bar.

**. ] [ .**

"Fucking swear, man! 'S 'diculous. Kicking in people's doors all rude like… It's not very nice!" The bartender, Charlie, only watched Joe as he downed his umpteenth shot, and jabbed his finger at some newspaper he had brought with him. "Ya know, man?" He was staring at Charlie, now, eyes dazed and watery. The solemn bartender nodded tiredly, and got another beer for the poor haggard guy sitting next to the hopeless drunk. Joe kept trying to talk to him, and he only gave strange looks and gruff, short responses in reply.

"I mean, Jesus, man!" Joe was crying now. Charlie had been expecting it any moment. Ever since the Event, he had been a regular here. Same for his neighbor, though he didn't know his name. Hell, business was booming since that damn squid materialized. "Everybody's _dead_! Why the hell would somebody _do _that to a guy? And all for a fucking newspaper, man. A _newspaper_." He slapped his hand a few times onto his paper, emphasizing. Finally, his neighbor looked with interest.

"I mean… 'S nothing in there but Nixon and Rorschach," Joe grumbled drunkenly.

"…What?" The guy next to him seemed genuinely interested, his icy blue eyes intent. Charlie was not. He moved down the bar to help a pair of worn young ladies.

"Fuckers broke into Greg's house and fucking stole his _Frontiersman_," reiterated the intoxicated journalist.

"No, about the paper. What was in it?" Joe said nothing, only pushed his own copy over, without even thinking of possible consequences. His head swimming, he groaned, and let his forehead rest against the cool granite of the bar. His dark haired, severe looking neighbor flipped through the paper, skimming each article. He lingered on page four, mouth slightly agape as he read.

Seeing Joe practically unconscious in his seat, Charlie sidled back his way. He snapped his fingers by the drunk's face, and Joe jerked back to attention, blinking.

"You've had way too much to drink, pal. I'm cutting you off."

"No! Only had… Only…" Joe furrowed his brow, and tried to count, but Charlie interrupted his thought process.

"You're _drunk_. And not just tipsy drunk, black out _drunk_. Did you drive?"

"'M not that drunk! Can't a guy fucking- can't a guy-?" The words fell clumsily from his mouth.

"_Did you drive._" Joe pouted, but shook his head "no."

"Then it's about time you head home. Is there anybody you can call to come get you?" He may not have been entertained by Joe's drunken ravings, but he still had a heart. A drunk like him would be a prime target for any muggers between here and wherever he lived.

"Yeah… M' girlfriend, Kimb-" He stopped suddenly, words locked painfully in his throat. More tears welled up. The bartender swore under his breath. Of course he had nobody to call. Nobody here had anybody to call. "N-ne'ermind… Just be going… Too drunk…" He fumbled with his wallet, but Charlie took pity.

"I'll just make you a tab, okay? Pay next time you come. What's your name?"

"Winston," Joe said suddenly, in his stupor. "Winston Smith." The name was wrong, but he realized it too late- Charlie had already jotted it down. Face still wet, he slid from his seat, and biting his lip, stumbled out the door.

It was chilly out. Winter still had her claws on the city, though things were gradually warming up. Still, it was cool enough for Joe to shudder, and cling to himself. He hadn't brought his jacket. He didn't usually stay out this late. A glance at his wristwatch under the light of a street lamp revealed it to be around nine. Or maybe it was a quarter to midnight. His eyes didn't want to focus properly. However, his _ears_ worked fine. There was a rhythmic shuffling noise coming from behind him. He glanced back, using the light pole to support himself. A darkly clothed man was walking alone down the sidewalk. His shoes scuffed lightly against the sidewalk with each step.

Concerned, Joe turned away, and began staggering homewards at a quicker pace than before. The man was still a ways off, and he probably wasn't even following him, but it couldn't hurt to be careful.

A mile or so later, and Joe could still hear the stranger loping behind him. He wasn't comfortable with that scuffing noise. It was echoing loudly through the empty streets. Granted, Joe wasn't the epitome of silence himself. He kept tripping over cracks in the sidewalk, and his own feet, from both lack of light and a fuzzy mind.

When he turned the corner, onto the street he lived on, the footsteps behind him sped up. _Shuff, shuff, shuff. _Now thoroughly alarmed, Joe broke into a maladroit gallop, bouncing from trees to light posts to railings like a confused pinball. He could see his house, there, only fifty yards away. He fumbled with his keys as he dashed along, swearing profusely when they slipped from his hands. He stopped on a dime to try and snatch them back up, but lost balance, and fell. The tears were flowing again. He was crying so much lately, he was almost glad his family and friends were dead. They wouldn't have to see him like this.

Dizzy and panicked, he grabbed his keys and pulled himself up, risking a glance back. There was a dark shadow approaching. _Shuff, shuff, shuff, shuff…_ He whimpered, and hobbled towards his brownstone. He had hit his knee when he fell, and it hurt like a mother.

Finally, he reached his stairs. Joe was almost proud of himself for picking the right house on the first try; all the brownstones in this part looked the same. He tripped up the steps, and fell against his door, trying in vain to get his key into his lock. The footsteps were very close, now. Too close. He tried to move quicker, metal skittering futilely across his deadbolt. The stranger was coming up the steps- Joe recognized the sound of hands on the wrought iron railing as he ascended. There was no time. He squeezed his eyes tightly shut, and rested his forehead against his door, fighting the nausea that was rising up in his gut. He didn't want to die, he didn't want to die, not after he managed to survive the Event! He didn't want to die like _this_. He didn't want to die crying, drunk, and alone.

A hand fell on his shoulder, and spun him around, but he kept his eyes shut, afraid to see the gun or knife that would surely take his life after its owner took his money.

"Winston, right?" He cracked his eyes open. The stranger wasn't so much of a stranger after all. It was the guy from the bar. He was holding up the forgotten newspaper. "This is yours, I think." He passed the paper to the frightened man.

"Th-thanks," Joe whispered. He was pretty sure he had pissed himself. Then again, maybe he hadn't. He was just glad he hadn't hurled on the guy. The unnamed man regarded him for a moment with unusual, cold interest, eyes glinting in the dark. But then, he turned away, and went down the steps to the sidewalk below.

"I'll be seeing you, Winston," he called over his shoulder, before turning his collar to ward off the cold, and vanishing into the night. Joe watched him go, and, shaking, continued his efforts to get his key in the hole.

"Never drinking again," he muttered, almost scared sober. "Never drinking again."


	7. Chapter 7

**----------Chapter-6----------**

Joe was woken the next day by pounding on his door.

He jerked awake, rolling from his bed in instinctive terror and thudding to the floor in a bundle of sheets. The harsh sound drummed painfully in his ears, worsening an already bad hangover. The person (people?) at the door hesitated in their knocking, and everything fell silent for a few seconds. Joe disentangled himself, peered anxiously around his second story room, and then slipped on his robe. Slowly and quietly, he crept from his room, pausing to grab a metal bat that leaned next to his night stand. Then, he descended the stairs, makeshift weapon at the ready. The pounding on his door resumed, and as he reached the ground floor, he could see it shaking slightly under the force.

He tightened his grip on the bat as he neared the rattling door. Tiptoeing, so he wouldn't be heard, he stood close to the door and peered out the peephole. A familiar face was on the other side, warped by the peephole's lens. Groaning in relief and agitation, Joe lowered the bat, and unlocked the door. Immediately, his visitor shoved it open, barging in in a panic. There was a flurry of arms as she flung herself onto him.

"You ass! You weren't answering the phone, I thought you were _dead_-" Eyes squeezed shut against his raging headache, Joe pried the woman off of him.

"Jesus _Christ_, Sarah. Relax!" She stood back, taking in his disheveled appearance with a scathing look. He appraised her at the same time. She was thinner than the last time he saw her, and there were dark circles under her hazel eyes, mirroring his. "I'm _fine_."

"How the hell was I supposed to know?" She asked, exasperated, tossing her thin arms into the air and glancing skeptically at his bat, which he leaned against the wall. "You don't talk to me anymore, you don't answer your _phone_- what was I supposed to think?" Joe didn't bother arguing, opting instead to rub his temples with one hand and brace himself against the door with the other. Sarah fell silent, and something dark and cold entered her eyes.

"You're hung over, aren't you."

"Damn it, Sarah, I don't need this," he growled, turning away from her and padding wearily into his kitchen. She obstinately followed, hands on her hips.

"Yes, you do. What would dad think?"

"_Dad's dead._" It was like a slap in the face, and Joe instantly regretted it. Sarah stood frozen in the doorway as he leaned against the counter. "Jesus, Sar, I'm sorry, I- Listen, you're right. I'm drinking too much. But I swear, I'm done. No more." Joe shuddered, remembering the blurry conversation he had with the wiry guy who had followed him home. He was an idiot, plain and simple. He never should have gone to the bar; it always ended the same. He would cry, and stumble home to a cold bed and nothing to look forward to the next day except more of the same routine.

"I hope so," Sarah finally replied, subdued. "It's not good for you. Are you sure you don't want me to move in with you? Until things are at least a little more…" Normal. Tolerable. Stable. Because, while Joe had been publishing a story with the _Frontiersman_ two or three times a month before the Event, he slowed down to a crawl after it. He had only managed to turn out a few stories since, all carefully skirting around the topic that was so sore in the minds of New Yorkers. This cut his income down severely, and, combined with his excessive drinking, it was swiftly depleting his funds. Sarah had reason to worry.

"No," Joe quickly asserted, taking a bottle of aspirin from one cabinet. "You have another year of school left. Worry about yourself."

"I can commute," she argued, tidying up his counters as he downed a pair of pills. "You need somebody here with you."

"I'm fine." His body suggested otherwise, though. A fresh wave of nausea overcame him, and he leaned heavily over the counter, forehead pressed against a closed cabinet. It wouldn't pass. Instead, it only strengthened as he stood there. Unable to resist it, Joe bolted clumsily for his bathroom, arriving just in time to vomit sour bile into his toilet. He groaned, and groped for a towel to wipe his mouth with. One was shoved into his hand; he looked over to see Sarah standing there, grimacing at him. Sheepishly, he mopped his lips clean, and then rose to rinse his mouth out. His sister watched for a moment before vanishing from the room. She returned as he was gargling his chlorine-tainted tap water, two more pills in her hand. Without a word, she placed them next to the sink.

"This is unhealthy, Joe," She said softly, as he spat out his mouthful of water and took in another to swallow the fresh pills with. The acrid smell of vomit was wafting slowly through the small room. Disgusted, she edged around her elder brother and pushed the lever on the toilet, glad to see the contents of his nearly empty stomach washing cleanly away.

"I said I'd quit," he replied, a little bitter, and he turned away from her. "I meant it." He sauntered to his table, cinching his robe tighter. Sarah still trailed behind him, and forced him into a chair. She settled across from him, worry etched into her youthful face, as if begging to know how he was really feeling. He said nothing, only glanced around his own kitchen. Had he known she was coming, he would have cleaned up. Made it more presentable. As if he still cared.

Realizing he wouldn't open up that easily, Sarah sighed, and reached for the paper on the table, just for something to do. She yelped and yanked her hand back when Joe's frantic hand caught it first and snatched it away, though. Her shocked eyes darted up to meet his panicked ones. The silence was tense.

"What's wrong?" She asked cautiously, glancing nervously at the newspaper. He held it away from his body uncertainly for a moment, and then shifted his weight to slide it under his thigh and out of sight beneath the tablecloth.

"N-nothing," he murmured, lips tugged into a tight, anxious frown.

"Let me see that paper."

"It's just a newspaper. Nothing amazing."

"Then why can't I read it?" He had no response; he just settled himself on the bundle of paper and refused to make eye contact. "Tell me what's going _on_, Joe! You were never this weird, even after the Event."

"It's nothing."

"You _need_ to tell me what's going on. Are you in trouble?" He shook his head, and protested, but she couldn't be stopped once she got going. The young woman rose from her seat and lunged for her brother, yanking on the corner of paper hanging off the edge of his chair. "Is it the police? The mob? _Talk to me!_" He smacked her hands away while simultaneously trying to guard his sensitive ears from her fervent rant.

"_Stop!_" He cried as she victoriously tugged the newspaper free. "I'm not in trouble with the cops! Or the mob. At least, I don't think it's the mob."

"_You're in trouble?_ What did you _do_, Joe?" She scanned the paper, as if looking for his name in the headlines.

"I didn't _do_ anything." Sarah peered skeptically at him. Sullen and disgruntled, Joe turned his face away, choosing instead to examine the gaudy yellow wallpaper. "I didn't do _anything_. It's nothing, really. Don't worry about it." Upon realizing he wasn't listed as a wanted criminal or anything in the paper he had hidden in vain, Sarah dropped the _Frontiersman_ to the table, and continued watching her piteous sibling in awkward silence, too uncomfortable to question him further.

Equally as discomfited, Joe stared down at his table, trying to discern patterns in the stains on his tablecloth, and finding none.

"You've lost weight," she finally said, breaking the silence. He glanced up at her, where she hovered by his shoulder.

"So have you."

"_I_ lost it intentionally. I'm on a diet. So, thank you."

"Any time."

"_You _aren't on a diet, though. Have you been eating?" There was a brief pause before Joe nodded. "Real food? Regularly?" No response. She sighed for the umpteenth time, and hauled him bodily from his seat.

"You know what you're going to do? You're going to go upstairs, take a _bath_, and get dressed. Then, we're going to go out and get something to eat. You don't get a say in the matter. Now, get!"

**. ] [ .**

Some thirty miles away, a lanky, dark-haired man was sitting at a desk in a threadbare room, an electric typewriter humming in front of him. His fingertips rested motionless on the home keys as he mulled over his report; his steely eyes were fixed on the blank paper fed into the machine.

Collecting his thoughts, he glanced over at a second sheet of paper next to his machine, postmarked a month ago, from Finland.

_V, _it read in Finnish,

_I hope you are well. We heard about our dear Uncle's illness, and we think it would be best if you remained overseas to watch over him, for the time being. Please keep us informed on his situation. Mother sends her regards, and hopes you will write back soon._

_Yours, etc._

_Fredrik_

The letter, to any other man, would seem like nothing more than a rather stiff and proper note from a distant relative. To him, though, it was much more, and left a dark knot in his stomach. He recalled the newspaper that drunk journalist, Winston Smith, had let him read. Something seemed off, and it looked like he wasn't the only suspicious one. He had been wondering if his job was finally getting to him, and wearing him down into a paranoiac.

He turned his troubled gaze back to his typewriter, and began to write.

_Fredrik,_

_I am very well. I will gladly remain here and keep an eye on Uncle. He appears to be getting better, but I worry. His esteemed and ingenious doctor, famous in this country, seems to be taking good care of him, but I have heard that the doctor is not to be trusted, and may have caused the illness in the first place. I will look into it, but I need your advice. As always, I wish you and Mother well._

_V_

Satisfied with his reply but not the idea it conveyed, he rolled his letter free from the typewriter and flicked the switch to turn the machine off. Its humming died away, and the only sound was that of mice skittering in the walls. He easily rose to his feet, and folded the paper into thirds before sealing it into an envelope addressed to a town near Finland's border. He would mail the letter tomorrow, when he went in to work. For now, though, he would exercise for a while, and catch a few hours of sleep before returning to the bar, in the hopes that the journalist would be there when he arrived.

**. ] [ .**

_a/n: And THIS is why I don't upload until I'm finished. I always lose my gusto, or get distracted. Both, in this case. I apologize for the delay._

_I've been freaking busy. Between shopping for prom (iknorite?) and dealing with family stuff, I've just been selected to represent my school at an art contest of sorts within our conference. So I've been scrambling to get 30 some odd pieces of my art together and ready to present._

_Still, I'll TRY to update at least once a week, until this is finished. Aight? Aight._


	8. Chapter 8

**----------Chapter-7----------**

"So, how are your classes doing?" Joe pushed his noodles around the plate unproductively. Across the table from him, Sarah was delicately eating a salad, and watching him _not_ eat.

"Going good. I'm getting all A's and B's. Eat your food." Her brother glumly twined some noodles on his fork, and popped them into his mouth.

Sarah had decided for him that they would be going to Angelo's, a nice Italian place only a few blocks away. They were surrounded by softly chattering people, now, all of them admiring the food and each other. After months of simple living, Joe felt out of place and uncomfortable. It didn't help that he just wasn't hungry.

"So, I saw you had another article in the paper," Sarah instigated, trying to kindle conversation.

"It won't be published," came Joe's curt response, and upon seeing the suspicion on her face, eagerly stuffed more food into his mouth, chewing deliberately slow.

"_Why_ won't it be published?"

"No idea," Joe dismissed a minute later, when she was still glaring at him, and waiting for an answer. "Heard it through Greg Stock. He says the whole edition's been withdrawn." She frowned at me, fork hovering by her mouth.

"This all sounds weird. And you're obviously on edge about it. I'm worried, Joe. _Please_ tell me what's going on!"

"Nothing, everything's fine. I write under a pseudonym," he reminded her, but her frown only deepened. She must have realized she would get no answers, though, because she didn't press him further. "Why do you _care_, anyway?" Joe asked, turning his head slightly and peering at her scrupulously. She gaped at him, astounded by the question.

"You're my brother. You're all I _have_. Of _course_ I'm going to keep tabs on you." The color drained suddenly from his face.

"Shit," he muttered, and quickly fumbled for his wallet.

"What? What is it?" asked Sarah, alarmed.

"I have a tab to pay off at the bar. I need to do that before we head back." He swore again when he saw that he didn't have enough cash on him.

"I can pay-"

"No, I should have a check at the post office, for my story. We can go to the bank and cash it, and stop at the bar on the way home."

"You're only paying for what you owe. No drinking," Sarah commanded, unhappy with his owing anything in the first place. He nodded in affirmation as she called over a waitress and asked for the bill.

**. ] [ .**

"Do you remember Wiston Smith? The pathetic one with the newspaper?" Charlie looked up from the glass he was filling, and met the thoughtful gaze of the unfortunate man who had had the pleasure of sitting with Smith the night before.

"Sure. He was in earlier today. Why d'you ask?" The man shrugged slightly, and grunted, taking the beer from the bartender.

"Just curious. Will he be back tonight, you think?"

"Didn't look like it. He had a woman with him, scolding him the whole time he was trying to pay his debt. Looks like his girl's trying to straighten him out a bit. He'll probably be back eventually," he added in reflection. "Enjoy it while it lasts, buddy."

"Vincent," the patron introduced himself. "He wasn't that bad. A little soggy towards the end, but entertaining, at least."

"Eh. To each his own, I guess," Charlie conceded as he wiped off his counters. "Me, I don't care for the crybabies. I can't hold their hand and do my job at the same time, you know."

"Yeah, I know what you mean…" Vincent furrowed his brow, and took a swig of his beer.

"You say that like you have to deal with them too. What line of work you in?"

"Postal Services," Vincent said, a careful eye pasted on the bartender. "You'd be surprised. I get everybody from sappy women writing to relatives across the world, to the raging unemployed collecting their last paycheck."

"Sounds… interesting," Charlie commented, stowing his rag away. Vincent waved his hand slightly as he raised his drink to his lips- that's life. Draining the rest of his drink, he pulled his wallet from his pocket, and tossed a twenty on the bar.

"That'll cover it. Have a good night." The bartender took the bill and nodded as Vincent slipped from his stool and quit the bar.

"Strange man," muttered Charlie, and he resumed his mundane work with a sigh.

**. ] [ .**

Vincent prowled swiftly down the sidewalk, brooding. A woman and her daughter walking the other way saw him darkly striding towards them, and the mother tugged the girl hastily across the street, barely missing getting hit by a taxi that hurtled by only moments later. The somber man shook his head minutely. To flee a threat was understandable, but to throw oneself- _and one's children_- into more certain danger was just foolish.

He shook the thoughts from his head and tugged his jacket tighter around his lithe body. It was a somewhat chilly night; the sun had vanished behind murky clouds before it could set, plunging the city into early darkness. It didn't matter to him. The biting cold reminded him of his humanity, something he sometimes found himself detached from.

Purposefully, the black haired man rounded a corner, retracing the path he had walked the night before. His shoes scuffed on the concrete sidewalk, and the sounds echoed between the buildings like muted thunder. Vincent paused only once, in front of a row of nearly identical houses. His eyes scanned the numbers on the doorframes. No, no, no- there. That was the one.

Like a ghost, he prowled noiselessly up the steps, hands jammed into his pockets. No lights were on in the house. It looked like Smith wasn't home. Still, Vincent pounded a fist on the front door, rattling it in its frame. No answer. Somewhere in the neighborhood, a dog bayed insistently. He tried again a few seconds later, with the same results. Sighing heavily, Vincent turned away from the door, paced a few feet, and turned back to the oak portal, foggy breath puffing from his slightly parted lips. He scowled, and patted his pockets, then buried his hand into one. It emerged with a rumpled piece of paper. With the other hand, he drew a stubby pencil from a back pocket. For a moment, he pondered the paper, then flattened it against the door and wrote:

_W.S.-_

_We share a common interest, and I would like to speak with you. It is of utmost importance. Please call me._

He scrawled out a phone number, and signed the note with a "V" before jamming it in the crack of the door, next to the knob. The way it stuck out, Smith couldn't miss it. Regardless, it would have been much easier if the man had been home to begin with.

Frowning, Vincent descended to street level, and sparing a backwards glance at the brownstone, began the journey home.

**. ] [ .**

_a/n: I apologize for the wait; there was a family crisis that I'm still trying to deal with. I have the next chapter completely written, so it should be up shortly (within the next few days) but after that, I don't know. Thank you for understanding!_


	9. Chapter 9

_a/n: *facepalm* Yes, this is a Watchmen fanfic. =_=; I was going to hang onto this chapter for a few days, but I've changed my mind. Have some more Adrian._

**----------Chapter-8----------**

I woke up two minutes before my alarm had a chance to disturb my already troubled sleep. My restlessness has been passed off by myself and others as nightmares caused by the Event (_caused by me_), but that isn't true. Very close, but entirely wrong.

I climbed out of bed, and gazed out my window at the city around me. From my flat I could see most of the city. It was once an astounding sight, filled with glittering light and lively, worried people. Now, there is a circle of desolate darkness in the middle of the city, openly displaying the sheer number of people that vacated the buildings in their horrid deaths.

I forced myself to look at those buildings, sitting gloomily under the beacon that was the Veidt, Ent. Building. I forced back the bile that was struggling to rise in my throat, and purposely noticed how empty the streets were, how dark the sky. A year ago, the city would be brightly lit even at five in the morning, before the sun had risen. Now, there was no light to reflect from the smoggy clouds, only echoes of what the city had once been. I only turned away once I was thoroughly sickened by the enormity of my deed to humanity. I could never let myself forget what I had done. After all, it might have been for nothing.

_Nothing ever ends._

Finally, gut wrenching painfully, I turned away from the sight, drawing the blinds before making my bed and heading into the shower. I stripped down as I padded into my bathroom, and arranged a set of fresh clothes as I waited for the water to heat up. It was a futile effort; it was still shockingly cold as I stepped into it, and had only started getting warmer when I stepped out a few minutes later. I wrapped a towel around my waist, and, as per my routine, I examined myself thoroughly in the enormous mirror above my granite sink.

I looked like every other New Yorker, though I hid it as best I could. There were dark bags under my eyes, which somehow seemed duller these days, glazed by the horrors I imposed upon myself. Even my hair suffered, hanging limply over my skull. With some time, I could work it into something presentable, but nowadays, it was harder and harder to do.

Thankfully, nobody noticed, or, if they did, nothing was said. There was barely anybody around _to_ notice, anyway. So many of his employees had perished… My building seemed perpetually empty, haunted by a scarce few diligent personnel. None of them spoke to me. Most tried to ignore me, focusing industriously on their tripled work loads. I paid them extra, yes, and was actively hiring new workers, but I couldn't help pitying them. It was a painful insight of what I had done to this city. All of the secretaries on the main floor had died but one, and she was working herself into exhaustion simply for something constructive to do with her day. I understand that she lost three children under the age of ten, and her husband committed suicide only days after the Event. She was trying to lose herself in her work, and I let her.

There is nothing else I can do.

My other employees are much the same. All I can do is let them do their job, and try not to obsess. I have enough troubles of my own to overcome without taking on those of others, even if I did cause them. I _have_ to believe the ends justified the means. The few for the many… I did the right thing. I'm _pretty sure_ I did the right thing.

By six o' clock, I was ready to go to work, as with every other day. My driver had perished and I had yet to find a trustworthy replacement, so I resolved myself to walk, as I had for the past few months. The sun was just breaking over the horizon when I stepped out the front door. It was the makings of a beautiful day, spoiled only by the lack of birds. They had all either died with the humans of the city or migrated away afterwards. Even the sea gulls, which gladly dined on the dead, were repulsed. Now, the skies were empty except for a few stray airships. I hadn't anticipated the flight of the wildlife after the Event, and it was unsettling.

I was given several strange looks as I made the four block trek to Veidt, Ent. Most were simply amazed that Adrian Veidt, the city's supposed savior, was walking among the people. They looked at me like I didn't belong. They looked at me like… I should be kept carefully on a pedestal above them, to gather dust and rot, all alone. Perhaps that _is_ what I deserve. Other civilians seemed confused, as if they recognized my face, but couldn't place it with a name. Have I changed that much? Is it that obvious? Or is the city still in shock?

A scarce few glared suspiciously at me. Their brooding, unhappy, _accusing_ gazes reminded me of Rorschach's. It was as if they saw through me. There was one man, with a very bony, angular face and blue eyes like chips of ice that had given me a very knowing look as I walked by where he stood leaning against the wall of a building, hands buried in his pockets. After I passed, he pushed off from the brick, and adjusted his gray scarf before trailing after me for a block. He was smaller than me, yes, and probably unskilled in any fighting arts, but his presence bothered me. He was quiet, and stalked along like some jungle cat. Like Rorschach, reborn. Something in me whispered to speed up, enter some building, get _away_. But those were foolish thoughts. I am Adrian _Veidt_. The only ones who could hope to stop me were dead, in hiding, or amongst distant stars.

I was paranoid. I had no reason to be, but I was. My attempt to end strife had birthed a panic rat in my chest. At the drop of a hat, it would spring into action, clawing at my heart, my lungs, my stomach, searching for a way to get _out_. But I know better. I can rationalize. It is guilt that plagues me, not spies and assassins. And I _am_ guilty. I shouldn't be (_should I?_) but I am.

My mind was drawn back to what had happened a mere month after I did _it_. The priest had said-

My stomach clenched painfully, and I was forced to pause on the sidewalk, painfully gulping back what was either vomit or a sob. After a few seconds, it passed, and I continued on my way. My watcher turned into an alley, leaving me. The rat in my chest subsided, and slumbered, though shallowly. Acid burned in my throat.

I was completely composed when I finally walked through the front doors of my building. My lone secretary was furiously composing something behind the information desk, just within the doors. I could hear her pen scribbling from across the room. Two guards, of my reduced staff of five, were positioned on either side of the room, an equal distance from the front door as the elevator. A couple other employees slunk amongst my Egypt paraphernalia, doing whatever it was they do nowadays. None of them spared me a second glance as I strode straight into the elevator and jammed my finger against the button labeled "**V**". I was lifted to my office.

There was a lot of work to be done, and yet, nothing for me to do. Several grants from me to the city were pending; nothing could be done there. Several _other_ grants, from certain corporations and individuals to Veidt Ent. were already taken care of. I had a few reports to sort through from my latest addition to my endeavors, Veidt Medical, but they told me nothing I didn't already know. There were also a few letters I felt compelled to personally respond to, but other than that, I wasn't needed.

I turned away from my desk barely twenty minutes after arriving at it, pulling myself out of my chair to peer out my window at the gray city below me. It was alive, now, with the ashen remains of its people, drudging about their tattered and frayed lives. I saw more than one pause to look up at my building, and I wondered if they could see me, watching them. A few of those below even took pictures. Tourists, no doubt, and probably from the USSR. Once the countries banded together, tourism between the two nations had boomed. Millions of previously repressed citizens made the journey to the other country, filled with the grim intent to see all that had been banned from their sight before. To Americans, this meant the architecture of St. Petersburg, the Kremlin, the Red Square. To the Soviets, the Statue of Liberty, Rockefeller Center, and apparently, Veidt Ent.

"Mr. Veidt?"

I spun around at the sound of my name. There was a stern looking woman standing in front of my desk. She seemed vaguely familiar, and very businesslike. Her eyes were unforgiving, like my mother's had been, but with none of the naivety. I resisted the urge to nervously tidy up my hair. I am Adrian Veidt. I am professional, cool, and intelligent. I don't need to worry.

"Can I help you?" I asked blandly. She wasn't wearing a visitor's badge. She must have snuck past my greatly weakened security somehow. However, she didn't seem armed or otherwise dangerous, so they might have sent her up.

"My name is Sofia Gardener," she began, and suddenly had my full attention. She offered her hand, but I disregarded it.

"Any relation to Nelson Gardner?" She stared at me in confusion for a moment, mouth slightly open.

"No… I'm from PANGEA." It was my turn to stare. Pangea, the landmass? This conversation was going nowhere. "Uh," she tried again, seeing she wasn't conveying anything meaningful to me, "the Pan American National Genetic Engineering Administration?" Oh. That made more sense. But why didn't I know that? I _should _have known that. I'd been doing business with them for years. She just caught me off guard, I suppose. I wasn't expecting PANGEA to call on me.

"And what brings you here, Ms. Gardener?" I gestured vaguely at my spacious office.

"Doctor," she corrected me blandly. I skeptically raised my eyebrows. "In all honesty, Mr. Veidt, _you_ bring me here. You're the only reason our company is still afloat. Your funding has helped us through the post-Event stock crisis we experienced, and we cannot thank you enough."

"Much obliged," I said dismissively, and made to turn back to my post at the window. I heard Dr. Gardener huff indignantly behind me.

"_However_," she continued, her irritation pouring slightly into her voice, "we decided to thank you the only way we could. We heard about your lynx' unfortunate death in the Event, and-"

"Bubastis cannot be replaced," I asserted, perhaps a little sharply. "There can never be a second of her."

"No. That's why we decided upon a canine, rather than another lynx. If nothing else, he would be good protection against assailants." I turned to face her again.

"You… already created this, 'canine?'" She nodded.

"He is waiting downstairs, with some of our team." Maybe she saw something unpleasant on my face, because she quickly knitted her brow and continued: "He's a _gift_, Mr. Veidt. A sign of our gratitude."

I held back a sigh, determined to at least feign courtesy, and humored my guest, stepping lightly around my desk and walking briskly towards the elevator. She kept pace, heels clacking as she marched along at my side. Our time in the elevator was thankfully brief. I wanted nothing more than to be rid of the intrusion. Something about her… It was as if I should have recognized her from somewhere. And the way she kept glancing at me out of the corner of her eye… Like she expected me to recognize her any second.

It was a relief to both of us when the lift opened to the main floor. A small crowd of men and women were arranged in a loose circle. One of them, the largest man in the group, was holding a thick leather leash. Upon seeing me, he gave the leash a gentle tug, and an enormous beast stepped out from behind a statue, panting lightly.

It could never come close to Bubastis' beauty. In fact, it was a rather ugly beast. I saw its inspiration immediately- with its cropped ears, sloping muzzle, and two tails, it was obvious.

"Sutekh the strong," I murmured darkly. "God of the desert, and darkness, and death." So fitting. So _very_ fitting.

It was clearly canine, though it was much larger than any I had ever seen before. It was taller than even Bubastis had been, though undeniably thinner. Its ribs were showing under its reddish brown brindled coat, and the knobs of its vertebrae could be seen all down its back and in both of its whippy tails. Its head was reminiscent of an anteater's, long, narrow, and curved. Unlike an insectivore, however, a pair of dagger-like incisors jutted from its upper jaw, hanging slightly over the lower jaw. That, combined with its wide set, squinty black eyes made it look unintelligent, and primitive. It was very far from my tastes.

"He was more unruly than the lynx," Gardener said as I examined the beast from a good distance. "So we've trained him. He knows sit, stay, all the normal ones. Unfortunately, this means we've had to name him for you."

The dog thing tugged against the leash, straining to approach me, its dull eyes fixed on its reluctant master. I also approached, cautious and unsure of this… monster. Bubastis had been a graceful, loving companion. This _creature _could be none of that. It was raw and primal, not refined.

Eagerly, it rammed its snout into my hand, demanding attention. It breathed loudly, each air wheezing with apparent difficulty through its nostrils. I ignored its probing nose, and reached instead for the oval tag dangling from the D ring of its collar.

"Typhon," I breathed. "Also fitting."

"What?" Dr. Gardener asked, suddenly at my side again.

"You named it Typhon, no doubt because of the Set animal's other name, the Typhonic beast. What you probably don't realize is that Typhon, the titan it was named after, was the largest, most hideous thing that ever lived." This stunned my audience into a nervous silence.

"We, uh- we can take him back, I suppose…" stammered one flustered scientist. He was crestfallen by my lack of enthusiasm for the creature.

"No," I said. "No, it all fits so well," I muttered bitterly. Louder, I added, "I'll keep it. Thank you, gentlemen, ladies. Ms. Gardener…" I unclipped the beast's leash from its collar, giving it the chance to run away and out of my life. My heart sank when it didn't move, but remained at my side, purple tongue lolling from its mouth. The scientists gave me a final strange look, and began filing towards the door. The one with the leash held it out to me, but I ignored the offer. After a moment, he caught on, and turned away to follow his colleagues, leaving me alone with a new monster to tend to.

**vVv**

_a/n: This one was longer than usual, huh. I think it's because Adrian is wordy. What could be said in ten words for Joe would demand at least thirty, for Mr. Veidt. By the way, what do you think of Typhon?_


End file.
